


Confluence

by EeveebethFejvu



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 05:52:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3839491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EeveebethFejvu/pseuds/EeveebethFejvu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a freelancing boatman, knowing who to avoid on the river is part of Samuel’s business. </p>
<p>But sometimes the Wrenhaven has different plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confluence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MiskatonicWhaler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiskatonicWhaler/gifts).



“Hey, you – old man! Get out of the boat.”

Samuel turns slowly away from the _Amaranth_ ’s instrument panel and peers up at the figure loping hastily towards him. It’s late and the fog is lying heavy on the Wrenhaven tonight, but with the help of a distant streetlamp, he can just make out a lanky form pausing at the edge of the dock, its breath heavy and its shoulders hunched as it looms over him, a spindly, skulking shadow. It raises one arm towards him threateningly and Samuel watches the dim light wink off the muzzle of the pistol in its hand.

“You heard me,” the figure hisses, and by the spirits, it’s a _woman_. Samuel hadn’t been sure before, with her voice so low and rasping. “Get out, boatman,” she continues, gesturing with her pistol towards the body of the river behind him. “Go on, abandon ship. I’m commandeering this floating tub, so you better split before I split your skull.”

Samuel stays put. He watches as she slinks off the dock and settles on the _Amaranth_ ’s passenger seat behind him, the boat bobbing quietly under the shifting weight. Her movements are oddly slow and stilted and a frown rises to Samuel’s face as he notes the way she holds her left arm tight around her ribs.

“You alright there, miss?” he asks with concern. Her head jerks up, giving him a better view of her odd, half-shaven hair and twisting nautical tattoos. She gapes at him, exposing teeth like the fiercest of hagfish, her red-rimmed eyes wide in surprise. The pistol is draped limply across her knee and it takes her a moment to realize she’s let down her guard. A heartbeat later, the pistol is leveled at Samuel again, but at close range this time, aimed right between his eyes. Samuel tries not to cross them as he stares down the barrel, black as the Outsider’s own.

“Are you deaf, old man?” the woman snarls. “I said overboard, or I’ll paint the boat with your brains.”

“Are you hurt?” Samuel persists. The ragged shirt beneath her vest is suspiciously stained and the fingers of her left hand are coated in something sticky and dark. “You’re bleeding pretty badly there,” he observes. “That can’t feel good.”

“None of your fucking business, you fucking codger,” she snaps furiously. Even as she speaks, the pistol wavers, her trembling arm pulled down by its weight. “This is your last chance. Bail or you’re dead. I don’t have all fucking night.”

“You can have my boat,” Samuel says mildly, laying a gentle hand on the instrument panel, “and I won’t trouble you anymore. But if you don’t mind, miss, I’d much rather steer you wherever you’re headed tonight. You look in rough shape – begging your pardon – and if you don’t get that wound there attended to soon, I’m not sure you’ll be able to guide her on your own.”

An odd expression flickers across the woman’s gaunt face – shock, paranoid unease, perhaps even a spark of connection – before she sneers, baring her teeth like an goaded wolfhound. “Bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you, fucker? Gonna turn me in to the Watch, huh, try to get that reward all for yourself? Head straight down the river to Coldridge, that’s your plan, see it right there in your fucking face.”

“I have no intention of doing any such thing,” Samuel replies. “Don’t know anything about any reward, and wouldn’t know what to tell the Watch if I did.” This is not entirely true, strictly speaking. Samuel isn’t completely certain, but he’s already formulated a pretty good guess as to the woman’s identity. The wanted posters are everywhere, after all, pasted up on billboards and in alleyways and canals, and as a freelancing Wrenhaven boatman, knowing where and who to avoid on the river is part of Samuel’s business. He can even see the edge of a tattoo inked over her heart, and it’s just enough to recognize the dreaded cutlass-impaling-three-eels.

But even assuming he’s correct, Samuel isn’t interested in taking her to the City Watch, not even for Attempted Theft of a Watercraft and Threatening Mortal Harm. A proud retired Navy man he may be, but Samuel is less concerned with enacting law-and-order than he is ensuring the woman doesn’t bleed out from her own stubbornness.

“Please, miss,” he implores, humble even as he gazes into her suspicious eyes. “Let me help you. Tell me where’s the best place for you to get some healing, and I’ll get you there. I swear it by the Spirit of the Deep himself.”

For a moment, all is quiet, neither of them speaking as she assesses him, pistol still trained on Samuel’s face. Her eyes sweep across his form, and he watches her gauge his thick coat for possible concealed weapons, his heavy boots for hidden blades, his composed features for any hint of dishonesty or deceit. As he awaits her verdict, Samuel listens to the nighttime sounds of the river, the soft murmur of the water and the hum of dragonfly wings. There are no other witnesses to this chance confrontation, no others moving about nearby or loitering on the lonely dock. Already paid for a round trip, Samuel had been patiently waiting for his current client to return when the woman had come aboard, and though he’d expected the man back before now, there’s still no sign of his approach.

So Samuel sits quietly and continues to wait, even as thick, dark liquid begins to drip from between her fingers onto the _Amaranth_ ’s floor.

Eventually, the pistol wavers once more, then slowly, resignedly, lowers.

For a moment, she lets the weapon rest on her knee again and they both stare at it in an uneasy truce. Then, with a snort – of amusement or derision, he can’t tell which – the woman tosses it casually over the side of the _Amaranth_. Surprised, Samuel watches as it sinks beneath the surface of the river, its splash smaller and softer than he would have expected.

He looks back at her in silent question and she bares her teeth in a tired, grimacing smile. “It wasn’t even loaded,” she says, with the edge of a joke told on the verge of hysteria. “I mean… fuck! Wasn’t even my gun!” She wheezes, and Samuel can actually see the moment when the pain grows too terrible to bear. Her shoulders hunch, the arm around her ribs tightens, and a visible shudder runs down her spine. Her insane ferocity had been the only thing keeping her going, and though Samuel hadn’t known it was a bluff, he supposes his unexpected response to her threats had finally undone her.

He wonders if the pistol was the source of her injury, and of what might have become of her apparent assailant, before he realizes it’s probably best not to dwell on it.

Samuel feels the impulse to reach out to her, to grasp her shoulder and give what little comfort and reassurance he can, but he can tell she wouldn’t appreciate the gesture and he’d much rather keep all his fingers, thanks. Instead, Samuel turns back to the instrument panel, fires up the _Amaranth_ ’s motor, and leans over to untie the boat from the dock. His client won’t be happy to find Samuel gone and himself alone, especially in this part of Dunwall in the middle of the night, but Samuel knows where the man lives and hopes a full return of his payment will be enough to placate him.

“Boatman,” the woman says. Samuel glances back at her. She’s absently patting at her pockets with the hand not clasped over her wound and she doesn’t quite meet his eye. For a moment, Samuel thinks she’s about to offer him coin, whether in compensation for the ride or as a bribe to keep him quiet, he doesn’t know. He’s ready to refuse in either case – and not just because any coin she has was likely ill-gained – but then she pulls a battered, home-rolled cigarette out of a pocket inside her vest and Samuel can’t help but smile.

Her hand trembles as she brings it to her lips, and before she can begin to search for a match, Samuel has his own lighter out and offers it without judgment. After a final moment of hesitation, she leans in and touches the end of her cigarette to the little flame, her dark eyes gleaming in the flickering light. She leans back, draws in a deep breath, and releases the smoke slowly, shivering. Samuel hopes the action distracts her from the pain, mellows out a bit of the burning agony.

Subdued, she rasps, “You know Gainsford Way?” and Samuel’s mind flies through his mental map of Dunwall and the Wrenhaven, with its complex interweaving of man-made canals, inlets, and natural tributaries. He locates the place, though in his memory it is little more than a short flooded alleyway near the Distillery District, hardly well-known or heavily frequented.

“I know it,” Samuel says, nodding. The woman looks a bit surprised, but then just nods tiredly herself. “You sit tight, miss,” Samuel says, turning back to the instrument panel. “I’ll have you there before you’re done with your smoke. It won’t be long.”

As he steers the _Amaranth_ out into the river, keeping her stealthily hidden beneath the shadows of looming buildings, Samuel could swear he hears, over the muffled motor, a quiet and grateful, “Thanks… old man.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written for MiskatonicWhaler's prompt: “Samuel meeting Lizzy Stride, pre-game.”


End file.
